No Air
by PhantomofDeath99
Summary: He'd spent his life living without her, living without the very girl he needed to breathe: to survive, he wouldn't let them do the same. He knew what true pain was and if there was anything he didn't want, it was for them to feel it. Because what greater pain was there, than learning how to breathe with no air? Kick One-shot.


He sat in his rocking chair, feeling the cold wind pressing against his face as he stared dazedly out at the walking people and driving cars that passed the nursing home. Seventy years. It had been more than seventy years since she'd gone, since she'd left him alone to walk the earth, to suffer. She couldn't be blamed of course, it wasn't her fault, but she'd still left him and he still missed her. There was not a moment he didn't think about her, a night he didn't dream of her, a day he didn't pray to die sooner. Yes, it was an awful wish, to wish for his time to be up, for something as precious and unforgettable as life to be taken away from him. But he'd had enough. He'd lived more than what he wished for, and all of it was without her. He couldn't bare it any longer, the mere idea of being without her for another day left him feeling claustrophobic, like the walls were closing in and the air was leaving him completely. Sometimes it was a nice feeling, he thought he'd see her again: his brown eyed angel, other times it was painful and it made him regret. But at all times, it only made his passion, his desire for her stronger.

People said that at a certain time of his life, he'd lost it. He said that at a certain time of his life, he'd lost her and that was the same as losing himself. And it was true. She was his everything, his will to live, his sunshine, his hope: his life. She was everything he'd ever wanted and more, everything he had ever dreamed of and then she was gone: swept away in the breeze. He'd cried, he'd cried buckets, but never when he heard the news, only when it settled in almost a year afterwards and he realized she hadn't just left him for a while, or gone on a small holiday, she was really truly gone: dead. That was when he cried; when he understood he'd never get the chance to wake up to her face in the morning, he'd never be able to tell her how much he loves her as he kissed her, he'd never be able to take her out to dinner or see her smile, he'd never be able to touch her, to hug her or tell her about his dreams: how all of them were her. He cried when he realized he wouldn't be able to ask her to marry him. That was the point of his life where he was lost; where he was so completely lost and tired and just...confused. His whole world revolved around her, she was the air he breathed and the second she was gone; he choked. How was a person supposed to breathe with no air?

At thirty years old, nearly ten years after she'd died, he started drinking. His friends encouraged him, telling him it was fine to go out a night a week and just let go. But the main thing that they hoped stuck with him was that it was only supposed to be _one_ night _per_ week. They hoped he'd stick with a healthy diet of occasional alcohol, using it only on the weekends when they'd had a particularly hard bout at work. They hoped that eventually he'd get sick of it, of the same dreary bar and the same boring routine drink after drink and that he'd pick himself up, start something new; get a girlfriend, _get a life!_ They were right for the most part: he got sick of the same boring bar. So instead of picking himself up and starting anew, he picked himself up and hailed a taxi, telling the driver to take him to the next best bar. By the age of thirty five he was an unemployed, wealthy alcoholic, who'd visited every single bar in Seaford and San Jose. He didn't try to start again, he didn't see the point. Everything was pointless and nobody seemed to understand why. She was why. Everything was pointless because she wasn't there to enjoy anything with him.

At fifty, thirty years after she'd left him behind, he'd started having hallucinations. His family begged him to come home and just visit them, talk, work everything out and solve all the problems he'd been left to deal with when she'd left. He didn't. There wasn't even much of a family to return to: his mother died when he turned fourty two, his dad died when he turned thirty eight and the only person left was his cousin and her brother; Jasper and Jennifer. They didn't especially like him, hell, they didn't like him _at all_. No, they begged him to come home, or to return to what they called home, out of pity. But he didn't want any pity. He refused to be pitied because he'd lost everything. So he turned to the only friend he had left: his warm and always welcoming vodka. He drank bottle after bottle, slouching on a beat up old couch in his beat up old flat. And eventually, right when he was on the verge of passing out and fully losing consciousness, he'd see her. Her blonde hair would still shine, her brown eyes would still glisten and her voice would still be warm and soothing like honey. And he'd get to hold her, to hug her and talk to her even if she didn't say anything in return. But she was there, and that was enough.

At seventy five he'd retired to a nursing home. Or rather, his family had forced him to retire to a nursing home. Grey hair and spotted skin, an unfit body that could barely support itself after having three heart attacks and unprofessionally mended glasses had stared at him through the many reflections in the spotless windows; he was old and he couldn't take care of himself, he couldn't even fight them on this because they'd go to the doctor or the court and they'd have him forced in either way. So he'd agreed silently, spending his time skulking the corridors, sitting in the back of rooms by himself and sulking in his room, barely able to go to sleep. He had been exhausted for years, fifty five years without the air you breathe would do that to you. He wasn't even sure how he'd survived so long without her, but he knew he didn't want to do so any longer. He'd been put through rehab at sixty four and though he'd spent a year fully clean because of the hawk like eyes that watched him, he was still an alcoholic, returning to his habits mere hours after leaving. But of course there, in the nursing home, he wasn't allowed alcohol. They offered him pansy grapefruit juice and bingo games, and all he wanted was to go home to his dingy old flat and stay there, wallow in his eternal self pity, but for some reason, he'd agreed to stay in the nursing home, and he wanted to know why. There was always a reason, she'd taught him that, and he wanted to know what it was. He was certain she'd made this happen to teach him something else, and he wanted to learn, never one to fail in learning from her.

And now, at ninety years old, seventy years after she'd left him, he'd found it. Or more precisely, he'd found _them_. The beautiful blonde girl and her matching brunette boy. They were volunteers in the nursing home and he suddenly understood why he'd been sent here. To warn them, to promise them the chance that he'd lost. That was what she'd want before he left this world, that was the task he needed to finish before he came to meet her. And so one day, he'd taken him aside. "Hey Mr Anderson, what d'ya need? Everything alright sir?" He nodded his head in the blonde girl's direction, stifling a smile as the boy looked over at her, a light sparking in his dark brown eyes. "Is it something about Kim?" "Yes it is, Jackson." The younger lad winced at his full name, just as he had when he was younger and he patted the seat next to him, Jack complying with his request. "What d'ya need to talk to me about?" He breathed a slight chuckle, pressing a comforting hand on his shoulder as he stared at him in all seriousness. "Don't let her go, Jackson." When he furrowed his eyebrows, he continued, "One day, you'll realize she's the air you breathe, she'll be what pushes you to live life to the fullest each day because she'll be a part of everything you do. One day, Jackson, _one day _you'll realize you won't ever want to live without her. And I'm telling you now, from my own experience, that I hope you never have to." He'd left it at that, standing from his chair with slight difficulty and walking back to his room, ready to take his nap and knowing it would be the last time he closed his eyes.

The next day Jack entered the nursing home and was immediately met with a crying Kim, a nurse speaking hushedly with her as an eerie layer of despair settled across the patients. Jack rushed over to them without hesitation and then Kim was in his arms as the nurse explained. He very barely heard what she'd said and was instantly overcome with his own feelings of dread, but he pushed it aside, hushing Kim who cried into his chest, his main goal being to calm her down. Mr Anderson was dead. He'd died in his sleep and as Jack held Kim, he suddenly understood what the old man had meant. He didn't want her to cry, he didn't want her to feel anything bad and if the pinching feeling in his chest told him anything, it was that he felt her pain as his own. She was his air, his life, his _love_ and though it scared him a little, he accepted it. He didn't even want to think of what would happen if he didn't, he didn't want to think about losing his chance with Kim as Mr Anderson had explained he'd lost his. He didn't want to know what it'd be like to live without her. Because how was a person supposed to breathe with no air?


End file.
